The air was full of the odor of people, pungent with the herb perfume worn by the Indians in little sacks sewed to the clothing, acrid with the smell of sage clinging to shawls and dresses, with the flavor of smoke-tanned buckskin. A half-open window let in a little fitful breeze that played wantonly with the dust showing in the sunlight of the upper reaches of the room, flirting and whisking about the heads of the throng. At last it came time for the weightier speeches, for those of the councilmen, of the chiefs, of indeed the older men of the two tribes, the patriarchs of this patriarchal people. “Sell our land?” they cried. “Retreat? Give up? Be forced into contact with intermingling whites? Take money in place of our land? What, money for the good of these traders who will get it all from us in the end?” Their old faces hardened; their eyes flamed. “Give up? Retreat? Move on? Abrogate the old promises, the old treaties? What, _again?_” Their lips twisted bitterly. “Do you not know, does not the Great Father at Washington know, that all we ask now of life is a little land, a little peace, a little place wherein to live quietly our quiet life, and in the end a little ground for our narrow bed? Move on! That we think was the first word the whites—” the “outsiders,” the “aliens,” was the name they in the Indian tongue gave this other race—“said to us. It seems they are saying it yet.” The soft bitter voices ceased; the old men sank into their seats, the interpreters, too, relaxed, wiping their faces. The inspector stood up cautiously, apologetically even. “But these old men, the chiefs, do not seem to have caught the point. The whole question of selling or not selling turns on the matter of their water rights; on theirs and their children’s as has been said. Land even in this beautiful Wyoming valley is a mockery without water. They can I am sure understand that; water they must have.” An old chief rose solemnly, turned deep, scornful eyes upon the inspector. “Let the white man from Washington go but a mile yonder,” extended arm pointed that way, “and he will see the river that flows down our valley and waters our land. It is there. It is ours. It is born in these mountains above us. God made them, I suppose as he made it. It is ours.” Along the packed rows there was a slight stirring.